


Into The Light

by raiining



Category: Destiny (Video Game), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Memory Loss, Reincarnation, Resurrection, Strike Team Delta, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 06:44:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3437414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We have to go,” his ghost says, concern etching its voice.  He can see that it has extended a scanning antenna and is searching the area around them.  “There’s only one City the Traveller protects, and this isn’t it.  I’m sensing enemy combatants heading this way.  We should move.”</p>
<p>He nods, starts to turn, and then stops.  “Wait.  What’s my name?”</p>
<p>His ghost shrugs.  “I don’t know.  Most Guardians don’t remember.  Do you want to make one up?”</p>
<p><i>Ronin,</i> he thinks, but no.  That isn’t right.</p>
<p>He shakes his head.  “Don’t worry about it.  Let’s move.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(A Destiny/Avengers Fusion AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into The Light

**Author's Note:**

> So what being a C/C fangirl means to me - apparently - is that _every single time_ I play a new game or read a new story, I want to work it into a Clint/Coulson AU. I’ve come to accept this impulse, and the rest of you can reap the benefits.
> 
> This is a Destiny AU - Destiny is a (super fucking addictive) video game about resurrected heroes who fight in teams of three. Can you _blame_ me for wanting to write a Strike Team Delta AU??
> 
> I think not.
> 
> Anyone who plays the game should leave a message with your gamertag, by the way. I want to play some Raids!! I haven’t even done Vault of Glass! This is getting unacceptable.
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings for major character death and resurrection. Because I couldn’t just write a _happy_ AU, no, no. The end is good, though. I promise :)
> 
> MASSIVE THANKS to my wonderful beta’s, Ralkana and Desert_Neon. As always, this fic is made infinitely better by your suggestions. Thank you, ladies!!

 

 

He blinks his eyes open, but the sky is too bright, so he closes them again.

“Be careful,” a voice says. It’s small, almost tinny - _mechanical,_ his mind supplies, and for a brief second he understands. _Of course_ there’s a mechanical voice talking to him, he must be - 

But the feeling vanishes, dissipating like smoke when he tries to clutch it in his hand. He’s lost again, feeling strange and confused. Where is he? _Who_ is he?

“Deep breaths, in and out. Stretch your hands and feet. Move gently - you’ve been dead a long time, after all.” 

“Dead?” _What? No…_ He rolls over, onto his hands and knees, and blinks his eyes furiously to clear them. “What do you mean I’ve been - ?”

“A poor choice of words, perhaps,” the voice amends, “but accurate.”

His vision clears enough to show him his surroundings - the ground is primarily rock and sand, populated by just the faintest scrub of brush. There’s grit blowing in the wind, and a rusty piece of iron sticking out of the sand. Around him are ruins, but his hands are warm, and very obviously alive. “I don’t understand.”

There’s a hiss of repulsorlifts - and why that sound is familiar, he doesn’t know - but then a small flying robot (a doombot? No. What’s a doombot?) enters his field of view. It’s a roughly round shape with a shining blue light at its centre, except that it’s made of overlapping plates that shift and whirl, giving it the illusion of an expression. “I’ll explain what I can,” the robot says, “but then we have to move. This area isn’t safe.”

He nods, and the robot does a little dance, flying up and down in quick succession, like it’s nodding, too. 

“The story goes that one day, long ago, the Traveller came to your world. It’s a giant sphere that hovers above the Earth - some say it’s an alien, some say it’s a ship. Either way, it brought with it a Golden Age of discovery, during which the human race expanded in every direction. You explored the solar system, designed new technologies, and evolved into the Awoken and Exo races. You took your place in the galaxy. It was a beautiful time, but it was not to last. The Darkness followed. Enemies pushed into your territory. The Traveller did what it could to protect you, but it was not enough. Its Light was pushed back, until it could protect only one small piece of Earth, a city - The City - the last city on your planet.”

He can almost see it - a golden time, filled with exploration and discovery. A man laughs, hand on his goatee, while a woman teases him. But there is also a colony world, and then a ship, and then a space station, and each time he tries to defend them, he dies. 

A hundred lives. A hundred deaths. All leading - here? The pull of gravity assures him that he’s on Earth. He looks up at the ruins all around him. They’re old, half-covered by the sand and grown over with stubborn brush. There are abandoned cars and bodies - skeletons. 

He shivers. “I don’t understand.”

The robot’s voice is gentle. “Most of Earth is wasteland, the City is all that’s left. To protect it, and to defeat the Darkness, the Traveller created us - myself and my kind, the ghosts. We are tiny sparks of its Light, created with the purpose of resurrecting the Guardians. Guardians are humans, both natural and Exo, original and Awoken, who have the capacity to summon the Light and push back the Darkness.”

He shifts his feet so that they’re under him, and then stands, squinting against the harsh light. The scrub of the desert blinks back, rusted cars and collapsing buildings as far as the eye can see. “You bring people back from the dead?”

The ghost nods, bouncing up and down in the air. “Yes. Every ghost is capable of bonding with a particular human. We search the remains of the lost cities for the corpse of one whose Light is compatible with our own. It took me a hundred years to find you, but I finally did.” There’s no mistaking the exhausted relief in its voice. “I am now your ghost - I will assist you and guide you, give you information and help. I can’t fight, but I can resurrect you if you should fall, unless the Darkness is too thick, and then you’ll be dead again. Our Light will be lost.”

He blinks and looks at his ghost. “So, we’re soldiers?”

“You’re a Guardian. I’m your Ghost.”

He shakes his head, raising a hand to the bridge of his nose to rub it wearily. “None of this makes any sense.”

His ghost can’t smile, but there’s something lighthearted in its voice. “Give it time. You’ve been dead, after all.”

He frowns. That’s obviously true. He doesn’t know where he is, but he can see that the ground is littered with corpses. He must have been one of them, only a few moments ago. His body feels weak, disjointed - _old,_ he thinks - but it’s already adjusting, waking up. 

And yet he has memories, even if they’re smoky things, of the _between_ time. He had lived, and he had died, and then he had - kept on living?

He doesn’t understand.

“I realize this is a lot to absorb,” his ghost says apologetically, “but we have to go. There’s only one City the Traveller protects, and this isn’t it. I’m sensing enemy combatants heading this way.”

His hands go to his waist, but they find nothing but cloth. “I need a weapon. What sort of enemies are we talking about?”

“Fallen, mostly. They’re an alien race that have established a foothold on Earth. There’s also Hive, but they’re mostly on the moon, and the Vex, but they’re on Venus. The Cabal control Mars.”

His head spins. “I still need a weapon.”

“Take this,” his ghost says, flying a short distance away and hovering over something gleaming on the ground. “I’ll find you something more powerful as soon as I can.”

He walks over and crouches down, picking up the combat knife from where it’s half-stuck in the sand. It’s dull, but weighted, and it fits naturally in his hand. “This is good.”

His ghost turns to move, but he stops it. “Wait. What’s my name?”

His ghost’s armour plates shift in a shrug. “I don’t know. Most Guardians don’t remember. Do you want to make one up?”

_Ronin,_ he thinks, but no. That isn’t right.

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s move.”

 

*

 

His ghost leads him through the ruins, and then up a series of steps. Along the way they find the enemy - his ghost calls them the Fallen. They’re two- and four-armed bipedal humanoids, curiously feral-looking, with sharp, serrated rows of teeth and weapons that fire plasma rounds. They don’t even give him time to explain, they just scream and attack. He grips his knife and moves without conscious decision. One of the Fallen lunges, and he ducks, then spins on his left heel and comes up behind it. He stabs down with the knife and chops through the Fallen’s neck, just above the cut of its armour. It drops to the ground.

The second Fallen howls before rushing him. He spins again and throws the knife - it sails across the open space between them and impales the Fallen straight between the eyes. It falls, already dead.

He stands in the middle of the bodies, panting.

“Well,” his ghost says, sounding pleased. “That was well done.”

He shakes his head to clear it then steps forward, walking to the last Fallen he’d killed and prying out the knife. His ghost darts to the right and scans a pile of garbage. 

“Here,” it finally says, a beam of light playing over a familiar shape gleaming gun-metal gray. “Take this, for when the bad guys come at you a little quicker.”

He walks to the pile and shifts away the refuse to find the autorifle buried in the dust. It takes a couple of tries to clear the cylinder, but once he does, it functions well enough.

“Looks good,” his ghost says. “Let’s go.”

He doesn’t move, staring instead at the weapon. This isn’t right. The knife had felt familiar, but this… He shouldn’t have a gun. He should have… something else.

His ghost realizes that he isn’t moving and doubles back. “Are you okay?”

_I have no idea who I am or what I’m doing,_ he wants to say. _I was dead but now I’m living, and there’s so much I want to remember and understand,_ he thinks, but he can’t say any of that. “I’m fine,” he says instead. “I’m coming.” The autorifle isn’t right, but he needs it. He keeps the knife, though, tucking it securely into his boot.

They carefully make their way through the ruins, stepping over rusted beams and broken glass. They run into several more groups of Fallen as they travel, but he deals with them easily enough. They’re obviously surprised by his presence. 

“Why are they here?” he asks his ghost. “What do they want?”

His ghost shrugs. “No one’s really quite sure. They travel in packs and prowl over large areas looking for anything useful they can find. Despite the concentrated effort of the City, we’ve been unable to clear them out. They’ve buried themselves in too deep.”

_Scavengers,_ he thinks. Are they looking for technology? Or something else? The area they’re walking through has clearly been picked over several times. There isn’t much that’s useable left. Still, it’s true that one man’s garbage is another man’s treasure.... 

He stops. Someone had said that to him, once, someone with a half-smile and a glint in his eye. 

His ghost hovers uncertainly in the air. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he says, shaking his head. It doesn’t matter if someone said it. He needs to concentrate on getting out of here.

“This way,” his ghost assures him, darting forward and then back again. “I’ve picked up the radiation leakage from an old in-system jump ship. If we can reboot the computer, I should be able to fly it back to the Tower.”

“I can fly,” he finds himself saying. “If you can get me to the cockpit, I can fly.”

His ghost cocks an armoured plate at him, the equivalent of an eyebrow, he thinks, but then nods. “Okay. It’s just ahead.”

They have to fight another brace of Fallen to get to it. They’re picking over the garbage, obviously interested in the ship but perhaps unsure how to move it. They see him coming and snarl, and he unloads with the autorifle. Two go down clutching their chests, but the third is only wounded. The fourth escapes unscathed. The autorifle’s chamber clicks empty, and he realizes that he’s out of bullets.

“Be careful!” his ghost shouts.

He grabs his knife and nods, then throws himself down onto the ground when the last standing Fallen attacks. He tucks forward into a roll and comes up behind it, stabbing it in the back with the dull knife. It clutches its spine and goes down, and he grabs the string of ammo it drops. He reloads it into his autorifle while dodging the fire of the last, wounded Fallen, and finally succeeds in dropping that one, too.

“Whew,” his ghost exclaims. “That was a close one.”

“I guess so,” he says. He has the feeling that he’s had a lot closer scrapes in the past. He scrounges the area for more weapons and ammo while his ghost flies over the jump ship, scanning it for damage.

“I’m sure I can fix it, I’m sure I can - aha!” The cockpit hatch hisses open. “Go ahead, get in!”

Nodding, he wrenches his knife free and runs back to the ship. He climbs up the ladder and sits down at the controls, and for a second everything is confusion, and then - yes. Yes, he understands this. He can fly this. He knows how.

“Up we go,” he says, hands moving confidently over the controls. A group of Fallen run into the room just as they start to lift into the air. The Fallen scream and leap for the engines, so he boosts the internal combustion and turns each of them to ash.

“Aha,” his ghost says, sounding distinctly pleased. “ _My_ Guardian isn’t useless. This’ll be a story for the Tower to hear.”

He looks over his shoulder and smirks at his hovering companion, hanging just over his right shoulder. The ship lifts free of gravity and hovers in the air. “Do ghosts brag very often?”

His ghost shrugs. “We need to spend some time in the Traveller’s shadow to recharge once about every a hundred years or so, and it’s a good way to break the monotony of surveying the wilderness. Most ghosts tend to hang out while their Guardians are sleeping, and they share stories sometimes. There are plenty of Guardians who wake up useless, and once in a while, one never makes it back to the Tower at all. That’s disappointing for everyone.”

He jives the stick so they rise smoothly into the atmosphere, and then sets them off on a bank that will take them high above the clouds. “Does every ghost find their Guardian?”

“We hope so,” his ghosts says, sounding subdued. “I admit that I doubted several times, but that’s over now. I’ve found you at last.”

He doesn’t know what to think of that. He’s happy to be alive, of course, because the alternative is being dead, but… “What direction is this City in, then?”

His ghost rattles off a list of coordinates. “You’re going to love it,” it gushes. “The City is vast, a sprawling collection of people, and it’s overseen by the Tower, which is where the Guardians live. You’ll meet the Speaker, who greets all new Guardians, and be welcomed into the Vanguard. Of course, you’ll first have to decide what class you are.” His ghost hums in thought. “You strike me as a Hunter class - you’re definitely not a Titan.”

“A what now?”

His ghost shrugs. “There are three different classes of Guardians - Titans are very strong, very powerful, but not too fast. Warlocks have more control over their Light. Hunters are extremely nimble and quick.”

He curls a palm over the butt of his knife, tucked against his side. “I think I’m a Hunter.”

His ghost nods. “I think so, too. I’ll take you to meet the Speaker when we arrive at the Tower - he’ll be the one to make sure.”

The Tower, when they arrive, is another thing that’s almost familiar. It rises into the air like something out of his smoke-filled memories, missing only a... _something_ he can’t remember to make it complete. He lands the ship on the pad provided and smiles for the first time since he woke up. This. This is finally right.

Except that it’s wrong.

He stumbles as soon as he climbs down from his ship, because there’s a man waiting for him at the ladder that sets his heart racing. He’s both exactly right and terribly wrong, the set of his shoulders a mystery, but the glint in his eye and the small, half-smile on his face are both achingly familiar.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” the man says, extending his hand. “My name is Phillip. I run one of the outfitter stores in the City. I was on my way to meet with the Speaker when he got word that a new Guardian was arriving. He asked me to fetch you and bring you to him.”

“I - ” He reaches out to take Phillip’s hand, and then gasps at the spark of sensation that flares up his arm. “Thank you,” he says, still dazzled. “I’m Clint.”

Clint! _Clint!_ Of course his name is Clint!

The smoke in his mind clears for an instant, before fogging again. He’s left with his name, at least. 

Phillip smiles, but he doesn’t seem to understand that anything monumental has occured. “Pleased to meet you, Clint. Right this way, please.”

Clint follows Phillip as if he’s being pulled along with a string. “Yes, sir.”

Phillip glances over his shoulder, his eyebrows crinkling, but he doesn’t comment on the strange address. Clint doesn’t either. It had just slipped out, and he doesn’t know what it means.

He feels more lost than ever, but at least he knows his name now. He looks at his ghost.

“Clint?” it whispers, right next to his ear.

He shrugs helplessly. “I think so.”

“Okay, then,” his ghost says, nodding approvingly. “I like it.”

Clint smiles. “Thanks.”

The Tower is vast, but Phillip’s steps are sure. He takes Clint away from the docking hangar and across the outdoor courtyard, slowing down when he sees that Clint’s steps have faltered and that he’s staring out at the vast sprawl of the City below them, and the hanging globe of the Traveller sitting in the sky.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Phillip asks, his voice soft. “I love the view from up here. It’s one of the main reasons I liaise with the Tower while Maria runs the shop. Well, that and the chance to meet Guardians, of course.” He looks at Clint and blushes, the tips of his ears going red. Clint finds the colour change fascinating. 

“My shop is just over there,” Phillip says, pointing down, obviously trying to redirect the conversation. “It’s hard to see from this height, but it’s actually a pretty good store. I know you Guardians have your own arms dealers, but you should come down sometime, check me - it - out.” His blush has receded, but it lingers faintly in his cheeks. “I’d like that.”

“Sure,” Clint says, without even thinking about it. He feels like he’d say yes to anything Phillip said. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Good,” Phillip says, and shoots him a smile. “Come on, this way. We don’t want to keep the Speaker waiting.”

The Speaker is a tall, thin man dressed in white. He’s the leader of the City - he ‘speaks’ for the Traveller, who is apparently protecting the City but otherwise sleeping, for now.

“There was a time when the human race spread confidently through the galaxy,” the Speaker intones melodiously. “Our duty is to bring that Golden Age back.”

Clint gets a lecture on the challenges currently facing humanity and privately doubts that such a thing is possible, at least within the next hundred years. In addition to the Fallen, the Hive, the Vex, and the Cabal, there is apparently a sentience to the Darkness that seeks to find and put out their Light. 

“The Light of the Guardians is the only hope we have,” the Speaker drones on. “Your service is difficult, but needed.”

Clint doesn’t know what to say, so he nods his head. “Uh - yeah. Sure. Okay.”

He’s directed to a large tome with heavily weathered pages. The Speaker flips through them carefully, illustrating the points with a long, thin-fingered hand. “There are three classes of Guardians, and once chosen, one cannot renege on one’s choice. Choose wisely, young Guardian. Are you a Titan, or a Warlock, or a Hunter? With which abilities will you fight the Darkness?”

Clint reads over the information, but he’s already made his choice. “I’m a Hunter.”

The Speaker nods. “Very well then. Take this cloak as a gift from me, and see the Hunter Vanguard in the Hall of Guardians in the heart of the Tower. He will give you your next task. Serve him well and, through him, serve the Light. We fight together against the Darkness.”

Clint bobs his head again, feeling supremely awkward. “Uh, thank you, Mr. Speaker, sir.”

“Go,” the Speaker says imperiously, and then gestures to where Phillip is waiting to Clint’s right. “Step forward now, good shopkeeper, and say what you would.”

Phillip meets Clint’s eye and winks, and then turns to the Speaker and bows. “Good Speaker, thank you for meeting with me. I have several pieces of information that might be relevant to you regarding Cabal movements on Mars, as well as a selection of goods that…”

Clint walks away, leaving them to their discussion. He whispers to his ghost as he goes. “Does he always talk like that?”

“Who, Phillip? I don’t know him at all.”

“No, the Speaker,” Clint corrects. “All that ‘the weight of the galaxy’ stuff?”

His ghost’s armour plates shift minutely, like a very small smile. “Yes, usually. He does have a reason for it, though, he has more and further reaching concerns than either you or I could believe.” He pauses. “He is rather pompous, though, isn’t he?”

Clint laughs. “Yeah, a little, but ah well - like you said, he’s probably got his reasons.” They’ve reached the open courtyard again. “So, where’s this Hall of Guardians again?”

It’s to his left and down some stairs. The Hall is where the leaders of each class meet and discuss the day’s events. Clint presents himself to Cayde-6, the Hunter Vanguard. He’s an Exo, the first Clint’s ever met - at least, that he remembers. He guesses that they’re artificial intelligences. He’s a robot, but very human in his demeanor - he jokes around with his equivalents and teases the Warlock leader when they learn that Clint’s decided to be a Hunter.

“The boy wants some excitement, Ikora, and who’s to blame him? There’s more to life than translating runes all afternoon.” He looks at Clint. “Don’t have _too_ much fun out there,” he says, more seriously now. “Some of us are jealous, you know.”

Commander Zavala, the Titan Vanguard, rolls his eyes. “Focus more on your job, Cayde, and less about getting back into the field. The Hunter needs new orders now.”

Cayde waves his hand in dismissal. “He will, he will. He needs to rest first, though. Here,” he lets Clint pick his choice of weapon, and then of armour. “Take one of these, and then sleep for at least a week. I remember my first month alive. It’s a big adjustment, and things are quiet enough, for now.”

Clint eyes the weapons on offer. Nothing feels right. “I don’t know, sir. I want something else, something I half-remember…” He trails off, frustrated. “Nothing here makes sense.”

Cayde-6 shrugs. “This stuff is old, you’ll probably find better guns as you patrol, and armour and shards and things, too. Repair what you can and collect glimmer to buy the rest. Anything you find is yours, provided you can point it and shoot well enough. Plus, you’ve got your knife, don’t you? Every Hunter’s got to have one.”

Clint fingers the blade at his side. “I do. It needs to be sharpened, though.”

“See Phillip, he runs a shop in town. Someone told me he was lurking around. Now get out of here, go sleep. You’ll need it the next time the Hive comes calling!”

“Yes, sir,” Clint says. He nods to the leaders of the Vanguard. “Thank you, sirs.”

Commander Zavala and Ikora Rey nod back, and Cayde-6 waves. “Good hunting.”

Clint carries the new equipment he’s selected back to the main courtyard. “Where can I put this stuff, ghost?”

“I can carry most of it for you,” his companion says. “I can de-materialize things and store them, or break them down for parts.”

Clint’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh. That’s convenient.”

“It can be, but you also have a bed at the Tower. Space is at a premium, so you don’t have your own room, but the Guardians all bunk together. The Hunter dormitory is close by, if you want to see. I’ll show you.”

“Sure, thanks.” Clint follows his companion around to the back of the Tower. “So, uh, Phillip’s the person to see about getting my knife sharpened, I guess?”

His ghost flicks an armour plate in a teasing expression. “Apparently. Why? Do you want to see him again?”

“Maybe,” Clint allows, fighting down his urge to blush. “He seemed pretty useful, after all.”

“Uh huh, and touching his hand was exciting enough that you remembered your old name,” his ghost says.

“Well,” Clint starts, and finds he has nothing to say in response to that. He stops when he sees the Dormitories up ahead. “Oh look, we’re here.”

His ghost chuckles, but doesn’t press. It flies forward and takes Clint through the entrance, directing him to grab a bunk wherever he feels most secure. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes, I’m going to see if any other ghosts lucked out while I was gone.” 

Clint nods and slings his new armour and weapon onto a mattress. He’d chosen a scout rifle, which looks to have good distance, and a chest piece that’s supposed to help stop damage. He looks it over and can’t quite figure out how to get it on, though. Does this piece click here? Or does it thread there?

“Here,” a new voice says, feminine and sure. “Give me that.”

Clint looks over and for the second time today finds himself struck dumb. There’s a beautiful redhead standing behind him, but it’s more than her good looks that catches him blind. No, it’s her eyes, and something about her expression, that feels familiar and achingly missed. “Tasha.”

She blinks, looking thrown. “Yes, my name’s Natasha. How did you know?”

Clint shakes his head. “I didn’t, I don’t - I’m sorry. I’m new here.”

She purses her lips. “I knew _that._ You’re staring at that armour like you’ve never seen it before.”

Clint huffs a laugh. “That’s because I haven’t. It’s weird, really - I flew a ship just fine.”

Natasha shrugs. “Some things come back to us, some are lost for good.” She’s shorter than him, though not by much. It’s enough to let her peer up into his eyes. “There’s a lot that I’ve learned to let go of. I’m not looking to dig into my past.”

“Okay,” Clint says, understanding her concern. “I won’t push if you won’t.” 

She nods and squares her shoulders, and Clint instinctively understands that the moment is behind them. “Let me help you with your gear.”

Her hands are confident on the straps and buckles. She gets him into the piece in no time, and then shows him how to do it himself. “There are also arm guards and pants, and cloaks, of course, that’s kind of our Hunter thing. You’ll find most armour in the wilderness or buy it here if you can afford it. They all fit reasonably the same, but some have special abilities. Extra ammo pouches, that kind of thing.”

Clint nods, trying to absorb all this information. “There’s a lot to learn.”

Natasha shrugs. “I guess so. It’s important, at least. Hands on - I like that. So, you’re obviously a Hunter?”

Clint nods. “I had to choose, and this was the only class that felt right.”

“I understand,” Natasha agrees. “I thought about the Warlock, but the first time I reached inside myself and summoned the Light, I knew I’d chosen correctly.”

Clint blinks at her. “The Light?”

“You haven’t experienced it yet, but you will. It’s why you became a Guardian. You have Light inside of you, maybe you always did, even in your past life, but you never had a ghost to help you access it. When you’re in battle and you need an extra boost, you can summon a piece of that Light. It manifests as a special weapon or ability. I’m a bladedancer, myself.” She grins with sudden ruthlessness. “Nothing survives my blades.”

Clint finds himself grinning back. “Is that so?”

“It is,” she assures him. “My blades didn’t appear until I’d been fighting for a while, though. We always get the golden gun, first. It’s a three-shot weapon, a pistol, and it certainly does its job. Don’t worry - you’ll figure out what weapon is yours the first time you have to use it.”

Clint nods. “I’ve been told to sleep, and then it sounds like I should report back.”

Natasha shrugs. “You’ll probably end up patrolling.”

“That makes sense,” Clint admits. “I’ve got to brush up on my skills.”

“That’s a good plan. Look me up when you’ve learned a little, though. I’ll teach you the advanced tricks.” She turns and walks away from Clint, looking back with a little half-wave. “Sleep well.”

“You, too,” Clint calls to her back. He climbs up onto his bunk.

A golden gun. Huh. No, that doesn’t feel quite right either...

 

*

 

“GHOST!” Clint shouts, ducking and running away from the Fallen.

“I’m here, I’m here!” his ghost replies, hovering over Clint’s shoulder. “I’ve got it.”

Clint’s shoulder is aching, but the warm light of his ghost plays over it, and the wound heals. “Thanks,” he grunts.

“No problem,” his ghost assures him. “That’s my job. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“No, I think I’m good. Christ Almighty, that guy is fast. What did you call him again?”

“He’s a Fallen Captain,” his ghost tells him. “He’s a powerful foe.”

“He’s got a fucking _energy shield!_ ”

His ghost bobs a nod. “Yes, he does. If you had anything with arc damage, you would knock it down more effectively. We’ll have to keep finding you new weapons to use.”

Clint grunts. He’s already found several chests worth of materials, and a bunch of new guns and armour. Thankfully his ghost is here to de-materialize it all, or he’d have to carry it back to his ship by hand. “I want a shield.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t think that’s possible,” his ghost says, regretfully. “However, if it makes you feel better, a few more shots should be enough to knock out his shield.”

“I hope it does,” Clint agrees, and then throws himself out of cover. He fires off two rounds with his scout rifle - _bam bam!_ \- and sure enough the shield goes down. The blue shimmer of force around the Fallen Captain dissipates, and Clint aims for the head. “Take that!”

There’s a _pop_ and a _hiss_ as the Captain’s helmet pops off. He falls to the ground with a thud. 

“Ha!” Clint yells, pumping one hand in the air. “I win!”

“Shanks coming in!” his ghost yells.

“Oh, _shit!_ ” Clint shouts, and dives back for cover. “Ahh!”

Scorching hot plasma flies past him, winging him on the arms and legs. “FUCK!”

“Here,” his ghost says, instantly healing the burns. “There you go.”

“Mother _fuckers._ ”.

His ghost cocks an armour plating at him. “You have very colourful language.”

“Yeah, well, I guess it’s one thing I remembered on top of my name,” Clint huffs, reloading his scout rifle.

“You know I can take us back to our ship at any time,” his ghost reminds him. “We don’t have to finish this fight.”

“Maybe not, but we’re going to,” Clint tells him, tensing around his weapon. “Get ready.”

“Life with a Guardian isn’t boring, at least,” his ghost mutters. 

Clint smiles to himself before leaning around his cover. “Eat bullets, Fallen scum!”

 

*

 

Natasha’s waiting for him at his bunk that night. “So,” she says, eying his torn and tattered clothing, “did you have fun today?”

Clint grins. He’s still tingling, ringing with the fact that he’s _alive!_ “Yup.”

“It looks like,” Natasha says. She watches while Clint’s ghost re-materializes his cache on his bed. “Huh.”

There’s suddenly a pile of stuff sitting there, some spinmetal, a few pieces of rusted armour, a couple of guns, and a whole bunch of ammo. Clint shrugs. “Most of it’s probably junk, but it’ll be good to go through.”

Natasha fingers a hand pistol. “Maybe. I’ll tell you what, anything you don’t want, I’ll help you disassemble, and then I’ll show you where to spend the glimmer you get. There’s a weapon’s smith in the courtyard who’s decent.”

Clint cocks an eyebrow at her. “Why are you being so helpful to me? I asked around - the other Hunters said you normally stick to yourself.”

Natasha shrugs, stepping back, but she avoids his eyes. “I don’t know. You’re different, is that what you want to hear?”

“I want you to tell me the truth, it doesn’t matter if I want to hear it or not,” Clint counters.

Natasha smiles. It’s small, but definitely real. “You’re familiar,” she admits. “That, what you just said - that and other things. There’s something about you that’s familiar. I feel like I owe you a debt.”

“I don’t want anybody to owe me anything,” Clint says slowly. Natasha had said that she didn’t want to open up questions about her past, and he doesn’t want to push her, but he also wants her to understand. “I could use a friend, though.”

She looks up and meets his eye. She looks surprised, but then she smiles. “Friends,” she echoes, slowly, like she’s testing the word. She nods. “Yes. Okay. Friends.” 

They shake hands on it.

“This feels like a momentous occasion,” Natasha’s ghost says, hovering by her left shoulder. “I should have brought cake.”

Natasha huffs a laugh under her breath. “You don’t even eat cake.”

“I could watch you eat it,” her ghost counters, unconcerned. “You don’t eat enough, anyway.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Nag, nag, nag,” she says, but there’s a laugh in her voice. “Is your ghost an old mother hen, Barton?”

Clint blinks, but he doesn’t protest the name. It feels right, like ‘Clint’ does. “Yeah,” he says instead. “Sometimes.”

“I don’t nag,” his ghost protests. “I educate.”

Clint grins. “You do something, at least.”

His ghost lets out a puff of steam from its repulsorlifts. “If I wanted to nag, I’d tell you to get your knife sharpened already. You could have used it today.”

“Oh, if you need your knife sharpened, I know a good place, it’s called - ”

“I got a place,” Clint interrupts. He doesn’t want to be rude, but he also doesn’t want an excuse to go anywhere else. “It’s cool.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow at him. Clint’s ghost answers for him. “Clint’s got a crush.”

“Ohhh,” Natasha says, her smile widening. “Is that so?”

“No, it isn’t,” Clint protests, but he knows the flush in his face gives him away. “I just - he isn’t - ” He huffs. “Shut up.”

Natasha laughs. “Sure, okay, go to your knife sharpening place. Better get a move on if you want to go tonight. It’ll be dark in the City soon.”

 

*

 

Clint finds Phillip’s shop easily enough. There’s a bright sign hanging above it that reads, “Phillip’s and Maria’s, Purveyors of Fine and Exotic Goods.”

He hesitates in front of the door, then tells himself not to be a coward and pushes it open. A tiny bell jingles. It’s not a sound that Clint’s heard lately, and it makes him still in half-remembered memory.

“I like antique things,” Phillip explains, stepping forward. “Sorry about that. How can I help you tonight?”

Like yesterday, Clint finds himself caught by Phillip’s eyes. The rest of him isn’t overly familiar - he’s thicker than Clint somehow thinks he should be, his skin is a different colour and his head is full of hair, but still there’s something about his eyes that pulls at Clint’s consciousness. He knows this man, somehow.

“Have we met before?” he blurts out, forgetting his plan to ease his way into it.

Phillip’s eyebrows rise. “Yes? Yesterday? Don’t you remember?”

“No, yes, I mean - ” Clint blushes furiously. “I meant before that. Before yesterday. Do I look familiar to you?”

Phillip hesitates. His eyes glance over Clint, from his hair down to his boots, and there’s something caught in his expression.

In the end, though, he shakes his head. “No,” he says, regretfully. “I’m sorry, but you don’t.”

“Oh,” Clint says, his shoulders slumping in dejection. “Okay.” He turns to leave.

“Wait!” Phillip calls. Clint turns around. Phillip gestures to his shop. “Did you need something?”

“No,” Clint says, shaking his head. “I’m good. Thank you.” He steps away.

 

*

 

He ends up going to Natasha’s person at the Tower to have his knife sharpened. 

“I’m sorry that he didn’t recognize you,” Natasha says, sitting with him later. He’s told her everything, since there’s no reason not to, now.

“It’s okay, it was stupid, I don’t - ” He hesitates. “Just because something is familiar to me, or because I seem to remember things that have happened after I died but before my ghost woke me up, that doesn’t mean that someone else remembers them too.”

She bites her bottom lip, chewing over that information. “Maybe,” she finally agrees. “Some people might be too cowardly to look at it closely, though.” She fingers his bedsheets, avoiding his eyes.

“Looking towards the future isn’t cowardly,” Clint tells her gently. “It’s smart. I should let go of my past and do the same. There’s definitely enough to do around here as it is.”

Something tense in Natasha’s posture relaxes. “You’re right,” she agrees, “there is. Have you been to the moon yet?”

Clint shakes his head.

“We’ll go tomorrow, if you want,” Natasha promises. “It’s fun, and there’s plenty of Hive to kill.”

 

*

 

They travel to the moon together, and then to Venus, and eventually to Mars, and one time they actually go to the Reef, to coast among the wreckage there, at least until the Awoken chase them away.

They fight in countless battles. Clint reaches deep inside himself and summons his Light. It manifests as a golden gun, just like Natasha had said. It’s a great weapon, accurate and powerful, but it isn’t _right._ He’s gotten used to a lot of strange stuff in this brave new world he’s found himself in, but that’s one thing that eludes him.

“It’s okay,” Natasha tells him, handing him another beer. The Tower Bar doesn’t have a lot of selection, but the liquor is cheap. “You’ll find your proper subclass soon.”

Clint makes a face into a bottle. “I’ve tried to summon the blades like you do, Natasha. It just doesn’t work. It isn’t for me.”

She pats him on the shoulder. 

He works up the courage to talk to Cayde-6 about it, the next time he’s swinging by. “I’ve used the golden gun several times now, but it just doesn’t feel right in my hands. Is there nothing else?”

The exo shrugs. “There’s the blades, of course.”

Right. “I know, a friend of mine uses them. They’ve never appeared to me, though. I was wondering if there’s something else?”

Cayde-6 looks at him. His face, like the rest of him, is robotic, and at times he doesn’t seem to have much of an expression, but right now he looks pensive. “You know, I have heard something - just a rumour, of course, and I don’t know if it’s true - but there’s talk about a secret sub-class. A third kind of Hunter.”

Clint perks up. “Really?”

Cayde-6 nods. He glances around the room. “Don’t go spreading this around, but talk to the Speaker if you want to know more. If anyone has the details, it’d be him.”

“Thank you, sir,” Clint says. He leaves the Hall of Guardians and finds the Speaker in his alcove across the Tower. “Um, hello? Mr. Speaker, sir? I have a question for you?”

The Speaker turns, hands laced in front of him. “Yes, good Hunter? What ails you?”

Clint licks his lips, and quickly summarizes his question, his desire to find another weapon, and the rumour he’d just been told. He can’t help but keep his voice from lifting at the end. “I’m wondering if it’s true?”

The Speaker hums. “There is much that has been lost to the Darkness after the Golden Age,” he says, and then turns and reaches for the large tome he’d first shown Clint when he’d become a Guardian. He thumbs through the different classes, getting to the Hunter, and trailing a finger down to the discussion of abilities.

“Yes, here. There should be a third class, a group of Hunters able to summon the power of Void, to complement the solar power of a golden gun and the arc power of the blades. There is reference to such a subclass, but nothing else - no name or description of ability.” He closes the tome. “I’m sorry, son.”

Clint shakes his head. “No, don’t be. That’s okay. I, uh, I’ll have to keep looking.”

The Speaker favours him with a smile. “Have you been enjoying your second life as a Guardian so far?”

Something prompts Clint to be honest. “Yes, Mr. Speaker. I have. There’s something missing, though.”

“I understand that you have been traveling with the skilled hunter Natasha. She’s a powerful bladedancer, that one.”

Clint nods. “Yes, Speaker. She is.”

“A proper fireteam requires three Guardians, though,” the Speaker gently reminds him. “Not two.”

Clint shrugs. “We haven’t found anyone who complements us yet.”

The Speaker hums. “Perhaps you shall, in time.”

“Maybe. For now, though, sir, thank you.” He nods and backs away.

“Fair hunting,” the Speaker calls.

Clint heads back to the barracks.

“What kept you?” Natasha asks. She has a bundle of material in her hand. “We were going to work on legendary armour etching this afternoon.”

“I’m coming,” Clint assures her. “We have our things, right, ghost?”

His companion bobs agreeably over his shoulder. “Yes, we do.”

When they’re alone that night, though, his ghost turns and says softly into his ear. “I don’t know if you’ll be able to summon the Light into an unknown third class, Clint. I know you want to, but without understanding how to shape the power…” It trails off.

Clint looks up into the darkness of the barracks, the shifting hum of Hunters around him a familiar nighttime sound. “I know.”

His companion is silent for a moment. “I think we’re doing good work here.”

“We are,” Clint acknowledges.

“But something’s missing?” his ghost asks.

“Something’s missing,” Clint agrees.

 

*

 

The attack comes without warning.

“The Darkness is draining the Traveller’s Light!” Eris shouts, her mad screams vaulting off the walls of the Tower with a shriek she must have picked up while hunting Crota’s soul. “Protect the City!”

At first, Clint doesn’t know what’s going on - Eris is always going on about something or other, but this sounds frighteningly serious. He runs to the edge of the Tower with the other Guardians in the courtyard, and sure enough, the Traveller is flickering. There are dark bands of shadow gathering along its base, creeping up its sides, and the shield it’s constructed around the City falters. High in the sky, a Hive Tomb ship appears.

“The City! Protect the City!” Clint shouts, fear seizing his chest. “Ghost!”

“I’m here!” his ghost cries, and instantly, Clint is de-materialized and re-materialized inside the City. “Go!”

Clint grabs his scout rifle and runs, blasting away two Hive Acolytes running up the street. Around him is chaos, civilians ducking for cover and screaming for help. “Where’s Natasha?!”

“I don’t know, I’m scanning for her and her ghost now,” his companion says. Clint switches to his special weapon, grabbing his sniper rifle and blowing apart a Hive Wizard’s solar shield, and then aiming for her head and reloading only when he hears her scream. “I’ve found her!”

“Where?” Clint demands. There’s more and more Hive swarming now, but thankfully the majority of the civilian crowd has thinned. 

“She’s back with a ground of Guardians rallied around the Tomb Ship. She’s fighting, but she’s safe.” 

Clint lets out a huff of breath. “Good. Get us back there, we can work together to - ”

“Clint,” his ghost interrupts him. It sounds scared. “There’s a group of Acolytes heading deeper into the City. They have a Wizard and pair of Knights with them.”

Clint shakes his head. “That’s too many to take on our own.”

His ghost bobs up and down in the air. “They’re heading towards Phillip’s shop.”

Clint feels the bottom drop out of his world. “Where?”

His ghost brings the location up on his helmet HUD. “North-by-northeast. We’d better hurry.”

Clint takes off at a run, reloading his scout rifle as he goes. “How’s the shop, ghost? Can you see it? Is it holding out?”

“Phillip and his business partner Maria have a number of weapons and several kinds of armour,” his ghost says reassuringly, “I’m sure they - ” It breaks off. “The Hive are breaking through the building!”

Clint curses and readies a grenade. “Hold on, Phillip,” he whispers under his breath, running the final block full out. When he can finally see the shop, he takes a deep breath before vaulting over a low wall and pitching the grenade at the first alien he sees. “Eat this, Hive scum!”

The grenade flies out of his fingers and sticks to one of the Acolytes surrounding the building that houses Phillip’s store. It stares confused at its chest for a second before exploding, little bits of Hive technology scattering left and right. 

Clint ignores the detritus and rushes forward. He takes out another three Acolytes, but then has to hide, avoiding the destructive power of the Wizard as she tracks his position and does her best to blast him away.

“Clint!” Phillip shouts, leaning out of an overhead doorway. “What are you doing here?”

“Saving your ass!” Clint shouts back. “There’s Hive in the City!”

“No shit!” Phillip calls back. “Here, take a reload.” He throws a box of ammo out the window.

Clint snatches it out of the air. “Thanks!”

The Hive Wizard takes two reloads to go down - she’s strong, far stronger than anything Clint’s faced before. “Ghost! Better get on the comm and radio for Natasha. We’re going to need backup here!”

“Already done,” his ghost assures him. “She’s caught up in some fighting a block or two over. She says she’ll be here as soon as he can.”

“She’d better,” Clint says grimly, firing off another round. “Otherwise we’re in trouble.”

He manages to take out another Acolyte, but just as he does, one of the Hive Knights appears. “Holy shit!”

“Retreat, retreat!” his ghost shouts. “They’re covering the area in Darkness. If you die, Clint, I can’t resurrect you!”

“No choice but to keep going,” Clint argues, taking aim and firing. If he turns and runs now, he’ll be shot in the back for sure, and he won’t be able to save Phillip. He can hear the sound of fighting inside the building now. Some Hive must have gotten through. “Phillip! Are you okay?”

There’s no answer except the deep _boom_ of the Hive alien’s weapon’s fire.

Clint steels his heart and darts around the building. He scans the store, and sure enough, there’s a hole where a solid wall should be. “ _Shit._ ”

The first floor is empty. Clint runs upstairs. He hopes to hell he doesn’t find what he’s dreading, but he rounds a corner and comes face-to-face with a Hive Knight. “Fuck!”

The Knight roars, and Clint unloads his scout rifle. The powerful bullets strike the Knight in the chest. It fires its cannon at Clint, at extremely close range. There’s nowhere for Clint to hide. “Come on, armour, don’t fail me now,” he mutters.

The cannon explodes. Clint staggers, but he survives. He returns fire, but the Knight summons a shield. “Shit,” he gasps. “I can’t hurt it, and I can’t take another blast like that.”

“Do something,” his ghost urges. It was caught in the same blast, and is struggling frantically to align its sensors and heal him. “Please!”

The only chance he has of surviving is to use his Light. It’s there, deep inside him, ready for him to call, but he’s too flustered to construct the shape he wants it to be in his hands. He pulls at it blindly, letting instinct shape its form. Instead of the usual golden gun, he’s suddenly holding a beautiful, purple-black bow that boils with Void energy. 

It’s gorgeous, perfectly balanced and utterly _right_ in his hands. Clint caresses the riser with his thumb while he raises the bow, one of the three arrows that had appeared with the weapon ready on the string.

“I am Clint Barton,” he tells the Hive Knight. He _knows_ this, he knows this in a way he hadn’t before now, “and I am the greatest marksman in the world.”

He shoots.

The arrow flies true. It embeds itself in the Hive Knight’s armour, followed quickly by two more. The Knight grunts, the Void energy swarms, and then the Hive warrior explodes in a shower of purple light. Clint rushes through him into the room, scanning wildly for Phillip.

For _Phil._

The fog in his mind has lifted, and he knows what and who he is, and - more importantly - why Phil is so precious to him.

And why losing him again would be so painful.

“No,” he gasps, when he finally sees Phillip. He’s half-buried under a heap of rubble, the remains of a wall and a shelf of antiquities. He digs frantically at the debris, but there’s no hope for it - Phillip’s obviously been hit by the Hive Knight’s weapon. His chest is a gaping wound, red blood surrounded by charred edges. Clint falls to his knees by his side, overcome with horror and a double hit of agony.

No. _No._ Not _again_...

“C-lint?” Phillip gasps. His eyes are wide and staring. Clint can’t believe he’s still conscious. “Is that you?”

“It’s me,” Clint says thickly. He takes Phillip’s hand. “Just - just lie still. Ghost?” 

“I can’t,” his ghost says regretfully, hovering quietly at his side. “I can only heal those whose Light matches my own. I’m bonded to you, Clint. Not to him.”

Phillip coughs, and it looks like it hurts. “S’okay,” he says weakly. “I’m g-glad I got to see you, one last time. You aren’t familiar to me, except in my dreams…”

He coughs again, and then stills. His eyes dim. 

He’s gone.

“No,” Clint sobs. “No, Phillip - Phil - _no._ Please, no!”

Nothing happens. Phillip doesn’t wake up. He just lays there, still and quiet. Dead.

Clint cries like he hasn’t since before he first woke in the dirt, his ghost new and strange at his side. He cries for the dead and he cries for the lost - the people and the world, the past that he’d forgotten. He wants it back, he wants the Avengers back, he wants _Phil_ \- 

He stills.

He wants Phil back. He can _get_ Phil back. He knows where the first Phil Coulson was buried, and he knows that if anyone has Light inside of them, it’s Phil.

Clint shifts back onto his heels. He crosses Phillip’s hands over what’s left of his chest, and then stands. “Come on,” he says thickly to his ghost. “We’ve got a City to save.”

His ghost hovers uncertainly. “Should we bury him?”

“We’ll avenge him,” Clint promises. “Let’s go.”

 

*

 

The clean-up takes longer than Clint would like, but it’s unavoidable. Finally, he’s ready to leave. He makes it all the way to his ship before Natasha stops him. “You’re really going to do this?”

Clint squares his shoulders, turning to meet her eyes. “Yes.”

Behind him is a hovering collection of ghosts. There are about fifteen, maybe twenty. The echo of their repulsorlifts fills the Hangar Bay.

“You don’t know for certain that he has any Light,” Natasha reminds him. “You could get all the way there and find nothing.”

“I’ll find him,” Clint assures her. “If nothing else, I’ll get to say goodbye.” 

She bites her lower lip. 

God, she’s just like Clint remembers - Natasha Romanova, proud and dangerous and strong. She’s said that she doesn’t want to remember, but Clint knows everything now, and he can’t forget again. He knows her.

She must see something in his eyes, because she nods her head. “I’m coming with you.”

“Nat,” Clint protests, “you don’t have to. It’s going to be dangerous work. There’s no City presence out there, and it’s off the beaten track.”

“Which is exactly why you need me, _ребенок,_ ” she says, which is odd, because she’s never used Russian before. “There’ll be lots of Fallen between you and what you seek.”

She’s right, and he knows how useless it is to argue with Natasha. “Thank you, _сестра_ ”

She smiles. “You’re welcome.”

Natasha takes half the ghosts with her in her ship, and Clint takes the other half. “You guys know there are no guarantees here, right?” he reminds them.

They twitter, and his ghost speaks for them. “They know, Clint. They still want to try.”

Clint nods. He isn’t going to disapprove of anyone’s dream. “Here’s hoping, then.”

The graveyard he remembers has shifted with the centuries. It was built over at one time, but that building has since come crashing down. Clint leads their group through a series of tunnels. They fight through the Fallen that have made the area their home, and even some Hive. They come at last to an ancient concrete wall covered with plaques.

_S.H.I.E.L.D. Wall of Remembrance,_ it says.

“We’re here,” Clint tells the group.

He sees Natasha cock her head at the writing, but she doesn’t say anything. Clint doesn’t either. He climbs through the wall to the buried cemetery behind it. The ghosts flow past him and into the room. This is their show now.

The graveyard has been disturbed, but he doesn’t focus on any of the bodies. There isn’t much left, after all. “Let me know if you find anything.”

The ghosts nod. They spread out among the stones. Clint watches them go. He’s aware of Natasha at his side.

Most of the troop are scanning and re-scanning the area, but one ghost has gone off on its own. It scans a patch of ground, twirls, and then scans it again. “Uh, can I get a little help over here?”

Clint moves to assist. He’s careful to step around the gravesites, but hurries as quickly as he can to the ghost’s side. “Of course, what is it?”

“This stone here, can you move it back? It’s interfering with my scans,” the ghost asks, sounding nervous.

“Sure,” Clint says, bending forward. The concrete is heavy, and Natasha comes to help. Together they shift it to the side. “How’s that?”

“Better,” the ghost says, sounding distracted. “Much better, that’s...”

A series of lights flare along its rim. “I’ve got it! I sense a fragment of Light!”

The other ghosts rush back. Cries of “Really?” and “Get on with it!” fill the air.

Clint holds his breath, clenching and unclenching his hands. He keeps his focus up, on the ghost hovering with growing certainty, and doesn’t dare look too closely at the grave. He doesn’t want to see what’s left of someone he’d probably known after all these years.

Is it Phil? Could it be? There _are_ other heroes buried here. Maybe it’s someone like -

A dry cough emerges from the grave. The ghosts chatter excitedly. 

“What?” an achingly familiar voice asks. “What’s going on?”

Clint feels relief crash over him in a wave. “Phil!”

Phil looks confused. He’s covered in dust and dirt, his clothes are hanging pieces of thread, but his eyes are open, and he’s _alive._ He looks exactly like Clint remembers. His hair is the same, his build is the same. Phillip’s half-right gaze is perfect in Phil’s treasured face. “Clint?”

Clint chokes back a sob, reaching forward to clasp Phil’s hand in his own. “Don’t move yet, take a few deep breaths. It’s disorienting, I know.”

The ghost that had awoken him bobs up and down in agreement. Phil looks between Clint, his ghost, and Natasha, hovering close behind. He shakes his head. “Everything is very… fuzzy.”

Clint smiles. “I know, boss, but don’t worry. We have time.”

 

*

 

“So, young Hunter,” the Speaker says knowingly, “I see you found your third member after all?”

Clint looks over his shoulder and grins at Phil and Natasha ribbing each other while they wait. Unlike him, Phil had taken immediately to his golden gun. He’d looked over the other classes, and had assured them that he’d honestly considered them, but, in the end, he chose to be a Hunter.

“That’s what we’ve always been,” he’d told them, eyes going distant the way it did when he remembered things. His memories haven’t come back as completely as Clint’s, but they have at least partially returned. He remembers who he is and who they are, though he forgets the details of their lives, sometimes. 

Natasha hasn’t commented on what she remembers at all. She’s accepted Phil into their group seamlessly, though, and they work well together. Just yesterday Natasha had thrown Phil a weapon, and he’d caught it without looking. They’ve been doing more and more of that lately, automatically taking flanking positions while Clint brings up the rear. He loves his Void bow, and he’s been bugging the Tower weaponsmith to make him mundane versions of the same. 

Phil’s said he also remembers some of the _between_ time, like Clint does. Late at night, he’s told Clint that he remembers being Phillip, at least some.

 

“He liked you,” he’d told Clint without looking at him, tracing patterns on his shoulder with the pads of his fingers. “He couldn’t quite figure out why.”

“I liked him, too,” Clint had admitted, just as quietly. “He was you. He wasn’t completely you, though. It didn’t feel right to see him again.”

“Did you worry you would have been taking advantage?” Phil had asked. 

Clint had chewed his bottom lip. “Maybe. I didn’t quite remember my past, but I knew that if I spent time with him, it wouldn’t have been for _him._ It would have been for me. That wouldn’t have been right.”

Phil had been quiet. “He wanted to get to know you better, but I think he understood. That’s why the dreams bothered him.”

Clint had rolled over and pressed a kiss to Phil’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“You came when he was in danger,” Phil had said decisively. “That’s what’s important.”

Clint had been silent for a moment. “Tell me something,” he’d said finally. “Your Maria, at the shop - was she _our_ Maria?”

Phil’s eyes had gone distant. “I’m not sure,” he’d said finally. “Maybe. Do you think I should see her again?”

Clint had shaken his head. “I don’t think there’s anything you _should_ or _shouldn’t_ do. I think it’s completely your choice.”

Phil had nodded. “Maybe. I’ll think about. I’d like to see her again. She deserves to know that I’m not dead, or, well…”

Clint had laughed. “Or?”

Phil had shut him up by kissing him. “Hush now.”

Clint had been completely fine with that.

“You fight well,” the Speaker goes on, gesturing expansively, “especially since you have now found your true subclass. I wish you fortune in your travels.”

“Thank you, Speaker,” Clint says.

The Speaker laces his hands together, staring off at the Traveler hanging whole in the distance. “A new team to fight for our future. A new team against the Darkness.”

“No, Mr. Speaker,” Clint corrects. “Not a new team.”

He looks over at Nat and Phil, who stop joking to meet his eye. Nat grins wolfishly, and Phil smiles. Clint grins, and turns back to the Speaker.

“An old one, Mr. Speaker. Strike Team Delta is back.”

 

~ The End


End file.
